


To share a kiss the devil has known

by framboise



Series: A Westerosi Halloween [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bad Decisions, Canon Disabled Character, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Halloween, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: In which the daughter of the dead dark wizard Aerys meets his killer in a muggle bar on Hallowe'en."What's a good man like you doing in a place like this?" she asks, pursing her lips around the strength of the whiskey set down in front of her."Avoiding home, just like you," he says. "A cocktail for the lady," he says to the barkeep, "something fruity, and strong."She doesn't bother to correct his presumption; she'd quite like to get drunk now.





	To share a kiss the devil has known

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of Halloween-themed multipairing stories.
> 
> This story takes place some nebulous future time after the events of the HP books.
> 
> also, if you want visuals for this fic I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/166706157117/in-which-the-daughter-of-the-dead-dark-wizard)

 

 

Daenerys is only a moment into her walk through Diagon Alley when she sees the first flash of white hair and a blood red robe, and she shuts her eyes tightly and tries to breathe through the shame and panic. She's hiding her own hair in a hat pulled down low, the ends tucked into the collar of her coat, and her high heels are tapping on the ground like her quick heartbeats. She breaks into a jog and makes it to the Leaky Cauldron and then quickly, past more white hair and more red robes, out into muggle London.

The air is cold and crisp here, and the noises of the busy city rush past her. She takes off her hat and pulls her hair out of her coat, lets her shoulders drop. As she wanders through the streets bundles of muggles pass her by wearing costumes she doesn't recognise, with one or two comical witches in purple pointed hats and striped tights. But no one here is dressed up like the dead dark wizard Aerys, no one here is dressed up like her father.

The wizarding world had learnt after the final vanquishment of the last dark wizard that there was a power in speaking names, in remembering, that laughter could be a powerful tool; and this makes every Hallowe'en a torture for Daenerys – the image of her father repeated in front of her, laughing faces with white hair and long white beards, wearing the blood red of the Targaryen colours.

She knows that every other day of the year it's _her_ who reminds people of him; her own white hair, her violet eyes; so it's only fair that they have a day to flip things around, to make her tremble with remembrance, to send fear into her heart like the fear she causes others. But she still won't dye her hair because she doesn't want to forget, to lie that she is someone else. She's still proud of her family, their history and lineage, even though it's a complicated pride.

She hides away more and more in the muggle world, finding consolation in her anonymity, especially in the last few years when the fashion for pale hair makes her less remarkable. She's fascinated by their fashion, their music and culture. She sews dresses in the styles of their past and present, greedily poring through costume books and old fashion magazines, going out in muggle cities wearing her creations.

Tonight she's heading for a muggle bar that won't even be themed in orange and black with spider webs and drunken people wearing face paint and cheap wigs. It's a classy bar with vintage interiors and a mature crowd, with a band that plays swing and old movie soundtracks, where the waiters wear white shirts and waistcoats and the drinks are strong. She's wearing a dress she copied from an old black and white film, in a shade of pleasing dark green, and a red lipstick that makes her feel her age and not the young woman people still confuse her for.

She feels a smile tug at her lips as she walks up to the bar and enters the doorway, hearing the sound of the band float past her, but her happy mood drops when she spots a face she recognises sitting at the bar opposite her, a blond man staring down at his drink.

She recognises him, and has seen him from afar before in the Ministry of Magic and at the other end of a room at a party once, but they have never spoken to each other. Five years ago he had lurked outside her brother's funeral and she had wanted to slash his eyes out for even daring to be there, but back then she'd thought of doing violence to everyone, feeling alone and hurt and ashamed that she'd not spotted her brother's madness until it was too late.

She doesn't feel anger now as she looks at this man, just a wearying inevitability, a flavour of shame, and a dark curiosity that she tries to tamp down.

She marches over and sits next to him on the spare high stool.

"I'll have what he's having," she says, and Jaime Lannister looks up at her, startled by her voice.

"Hello, Jaime," she says, and smiles a smile that has brought many men to their knees.

"Hello, Daenerys," he says, his own handsome grin looking even more dashing for the wry sadness at its corners.

"What's a good man like you doing in a place like this?" she asks, pursing her lips around the strength of the whiskey set down in front of her.

"Avoiding home, just like you," he says. "A cocktail for the lady," he says to the barkeep, "something fruity, and strong."

She doesn't bother to correct his presumption; she'd quite like to get drunk now.

"You're not the only one who looks round on Hallowe'en and sees faces from his nightmares," he says.

He fumbles in his jacket pocket for an electronic cigarette and places it between his lips, draws in some smoke as the side glows blue, like magic. She cannot help but still be impressed by electricity sometimes, even though it makes her a country bumpkin.

"If smoking inside was still legal, I could have leaned over and lit that for you with a lighter," she muses, listening to the brass music of the band, glancing around at the mirrored bar, the velvet seats and fringed lampshades, picturing herself in a different time.

"You'd put a femme fatale to shame, in that outfit," he nods his head towards her, leers in an oddly polite way, and she cannot say she minds. "It's just a pity I can't play the piano, that would really set the scene," he says, holding up the stump of his right hand.

No one's quite sure why he never had his right hand healed, why he has kept the injury her father caused him in their last duel, but Daenerys thinks she knows why.

"Should I apologise for your hand, for my father?" she asks, studying his face, the green eyes and strong nose, the dashing flop of blond hair across his forehead.

Jaime laughs bitterly. "Only if I should apologise for killing him."

She looks away and sips at her drink, smooths a hand down the silken fabric of her skirt.

"Did you keep it to remember?" she asks.

He inhales and blows a stream of sweet-smelling smoke out of the corner of his mouth, clouding his face from her.

"Do you know how I killed him?" he asks.

"Yes," she says.

"I used an unforgivable curse," he says, "when I could have just rounded him up and brought him to face justice before a court of his peers, and then accompanied him to Azkaban." He drains the rest of his drink, and sucks his teeth. "But Aerys had no peers, did he?" he spits out bitterly.

Then he turns and looks at her as if he knows everything about her; as if he can see those short, but endless, years she spent with her father, the marvels and terrors she saw in their rambling mansion out on the coast, the monstrous man who had never been cruel to her even though he was cruel to everyone else around her, the man who had told her of how he would rule both worlds as was his birthright and how she had believed him, how she had once worshipped her father like any daughter would.

"He would have gotten out, he would have twisted them round his finger, he would have returned," Jaime says. "I did what was right, what everyone else was too scared to do, I saved them all. And the Ministry was too embarrassed to punish me, to lock me up for doing what they couldn't, so they made up some lie about an unfortunate accident, and I'm still stopped and thanked by mothers in the street for saving their poor little darlings from the dark wizard. But the Ministry won't let me work for them, they won't let me work for anyone. I'm a wizard of _leisure_ , a wizard without a wand hand," he says bitterly.

Laughter from the door interrupts them, and Daenerys turns to watch a couple stagger out into the night, the woman's arm around the man's neck.

"I suppose both of us walk around reminding people of him, of things people would rather forget," she says, nodding thanks to the barkeep who has slipped her a new drink after she drained the last.

He hums and leans closer. "And we share something else, don't we? Mad, dead, siblings." Grief flashes across his face before he hides it with his usual sardonic smile.

"And no children between us, either," she says, "no spouses."

He nods. "Though many lovers, I presume," he says, tipping his head back as he breathes out the last of his smoke and tucks the cigarette away.

"Oh, too many to count," she says.

People say that Jaime is the handsomest wizard alive, and she finds she can't help but agree. She is aware of his body next to her, strong and tall, and it makes her thighs tremble. She never goes for the sweet ones, it's always the ones with dangerous smiles and wicked eyes.

"Everyone wants to be the one that sleeps with the daughter of Aerys," she says, "although many find their courage abandons them by the time we get to the bed, the _fear_ , you know. Dear dad was so fond of cutting things off," she says and laughs meanly, and then feels her chin quiver with tears that she will not let fall, not tonight, not here with him.

"We should dance," Jaime says, his mouth curling up like he's told a good joke, as a familiar song begins and other couples shift out onto the small checkered dancefloor. He stands up smoothly and holds out his hand. "My lady?" he asks, tilting his head with a grin.

"Good sir," she says, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her out past the other couples to the darkest corner.

He holds her hand and brings his other arm around her, pulling her towards him. She rests a trembling hand on his back, feeling the breadth of him, the warmth, and stares up. Her heels are high but she's still so much shorter than him.

This man killed her father, she thinks, this man held the wand that did it, this man stood over her father as he died.

They sway with the music, their bodies inching closer. She turns her head to rest against his chest, and he strokes his thumb across the back of her hand. She feels smaller in his arms, as if she can set down some of her burden and lean on him. It's perverse that this man might know her best of all, might see into the dark of her that everyone else tries to politely avoid.

They dance for two more songs, their bodies brushing against one another, until the bar gets too busy and loud and she tugs him outside for a walk.

Out in the cold night air, he takes his cigarette out again and the smoke drifts around the two of them as they wander aimlessly through the streets, ducking out of the way of drunken revellers, trying not to name the tension between them.

She steals the cigarette from him and inhales a smoke that tastes of apples.

"Apples," she says, licking her lips, "I could get used to that."

"Smoking's bad for you, don't let me corrupt you," he drawls.

"Don't worry, I was born corrupt," she says, hating the self-pity in her voice.

"Don't say that," he says, and pulls her to face him with his hand behind her neck. "We're not who our parents were, our siblings. We make our own decisions."

"Do we?" she asks, her voice tremulous.

"We do," he says, nodding. "My sister would hate me spending time with you, dancing with you, and so would my father."

"My brother hated you too," she says, "he used to tell me about all the ways he would gut you and take you apart."

"And what do you think of me?" he asks, the streetlight they pass glinting off his face, throwing shadows across his eyes.

"I don't know yet," she says.

"Well I think that you're far more beautiful than a man like your father should have been able to make," he says, "and for all the femme fatale talk, you have a very honest face. You're still so very young," he sighs, and she rolls her eyes.

"And you look old but your wrinkles only make you more handsome, and you're vain enough to know that."

"Am I?' he asks delightedly.

They drift towards an alleyway, and she allows him to crowd her against a wall, pulling him towards her by the pockets of his jacket.

"This would be a mistake," he says, brushing his lips over hers, teasing her.

"I know," she gasps, sliding a hand up to tug his hair. "It would be wrong."

"But then again," he says, glancing behind him at the lavish hotel on the corner with its doorman and gleaming doors, "it _is_ Hallowe'en, and what is Hallowe'en but a night for anarchy and confusion."

"One night of bad decisions weighed against the good behaviour of the rest of the year," she declares, and tips up on her toes to kiss him, to taste the whiskey and the apple smoke and his sour spit, to feel him devour her in turn.

"Indeed," he drawls a few moments later, stroking his hand down her back to clutch her hip. "Shall we?" he asks, motioning towards the hotel.

"Only if you're paying," she says, and he laughs.

"It's the least I can do," he says, darkly, and she takes his hand and they trip towards the hotel, and he flings a fold of money down on the reception desk and asks for their penthouse suite.

In the lift up towards the top floor they watch each other from opposite sides, leaning against the mirrored walls, breathless and hungry.

To bad decisions, she thinks, as he pulls her down the corridor, as she leaps up and fits her legs around his waist and he staggers back into the hotel room, laughing. To bad memories exorcised, to dancing cheek to cheek and letting bodies do the talking when there are no words that will do.

He sets her down on the bed and kneels at the foot of it, eyes gleaming.

"Let's see what you're made of then," she goads. "See if you've got the skills to match up to that pretty face of yours."

He laughs. "You're terrible," he says, and takes off her shoes, kissing each foot tenderly; then roughly peels down her stockings with his teeth, tearing ladders in them. "You won't be disappointed, I swear," he says, kneeing his way across the bed, hoisting up her hips and putting his smirking mouth to good work between them.

She closes her eyes and lets her head tip back; lets herself forget for just one night and pretend that neither of them are bruised by a past they can't ever escape.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think!
> 
> I haven't written Jaime before so I'm not sure I've got his characterisation quite right but I just couldn't get this AU out of my head.
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/166706157117/in-which-the-daughter-of-the-dead-dark-wizard)


End file.
